Pretty Girls Dancing(101)
“I’ll do some calling on my way down to the county sheriff and the editor of the newspaper.”
“Why the newspaper?”
“What better way to get the dirt on Mikkelsen and maybe learn the names of some former members of the church to talk to?” She made a shooing motion with one hand. “You can get back to West Bend on your own, right?”
She was actually pushing him toward the door. “With my Superman cape?”
“The mental image of you in underwear and tights is amusing. But I don’t have time to run you back to town.”
Disgruntled, Mark got out of the car. “I suppose I can call . . .” She was pulling away before he’d finished shutting the door. “Rossi,” he finished, staring after her taillights.
Interesting. Mark leaned back in his chair in the motel room, still studying the spreadsheet on the computer screen. According to Herb Newman’s bank records, the man was receiving income from only one source: West Bend High School. Cyber forensics weren’t finished with his phone yet, but they’d learned he had a mobile bitcoin wallet, where he received a few hundred dollars a month. Mark was willing to bet they’d discover it was payment for downloads of the photos he’d uploaded to the web. The bank records showed that until four years ago, he’d received a salary from Tri-County Ministry. Newman and Mikkelsen had both indicated that the custodian worked for three churches. So he was volunteering his services?
Mark speared a hand through his hair as he considered the monthly notations for checks in the amount of $500 to Trinity Baptist Church. Despite Laura Mikkelsen’s assertion, Newman didn’t strike him as the altruistic type. And her husband had even indicated that the churches paid for janitorial services. So who was lying? And why?
Because he thought better on his feet, he rose. Walked the length of the motel room. Back again. Sloane had said the secretary had indicated they hadn’t needed to borrow Newman’s computer for years. Maybe there was a reason for that. Could someone have gotten into the man’s locked picture file? Or even discovered the link to the web address Newman uploaded them to?
That would mean Newman had agreed to clean the churches for free in return for silence on the issue. Or, given the monthly checks to the church, that he was being blackmailed to do so. Either way, the Mikkelsens must know about the man’s pastime but hadn’t reported his crime.
Checking the clock, Mark grabbed his coat. He had time for another visit to Mikkelsen’s church if he made it quick. Shoving his arms into the sleeves, he shrugged it on. Zipped it up. If the pastor wasn’t there, he’d level the questions at his wife. He was pretty sure she knew everything that . . .
His cell rang. Checking the screen, he saw it was his SAC, Todd Bennett. Two hours earlier than their scheduled conference call about the day’s lab results. Adrenaline surging, he answered. “Foster.”
“Mark.” The note of excitement in the man’s voice sparked his own. “I know we have a phone conference in a couple of hours, but another lab result just came in. During the forensic examination of the victim’s body Monday, the pathologist found a hair on her clothes. The lab ran the DNA. We’ve got a positive match.”
Mark got out of his car and walked to the sidewalk, where the local police chief and another uniform joined him. Silently, they walked up to the house. Rang the bell. It was best that night fell early this time of year. He’d ordered the cruisers to roll up silently. At least the family would be spared the additional trauma of the neighbors witnessing the upcoming scene.
The suspect opened the door. Looked from one of them to the other, trepidation on his face. “Do you have . . . is there more news?”
“I’m afraid you’re the news,” Mark said grimly. The police officer stepped forward, cuffed one of the man’s wrists. “David Willard, you are under arrest for the murder of your daughter, Kelsey.”
“How can you be a buzzkill even after breaking the biggest case in BCI history? C’mon, look lively.” Sloane snapped her fingers in Mark’s face, then danced away as airily as a full-size Tinkerbell. “We just brought down the Ten Mile Killer, responsible for nine homicides that we know of.” She waved her hand at the row of pictures on the wall. “And maybe these other six, as well.”
Mark couldn’t summon her level of euphoria. The initial adrenaline that had preceded the arrest had drained, leaving only bleak sobriety. After the first few initial protestations of his innocence, Willard had fallen silent except to ask for his attorney. He wouldn’t be answering any questions, Mark knew. They’d build the case against the man piece by piece.
But the one bit of DNA evidence found with Kelsey’s body would be impossible for even the most talented defense attorney to explain away.
“This isn’t done.” His stomach rumbled, and for the first time, he realized he hadn’t eaten that night. Neither of them had. “We need more to tie him to this case. And then we have to start linking him to the others.” And that would be the real challenge, Mark knew. Memories faded. Witnesses moved away. “He’s got a bargaining chip in Whitney DeVries.” At the mention of the girl, Sloane’s expression sobered. “If we have him in custody, how long does she stay alive? And what kind of deal will the special prosecutor be willing to make, in exchange for him telling us where he’s keeping her?”